


Torch Songs

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, F/M, PG-13 - Blue Cortina, Time Period: 1981-2006 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-31
Updated: 2008-08-31
Packaged: 2019-01-20 19:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Inside the heads of Gene and Alex after he rescues her from the Cales.





	1. Gene

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** I listened to Billy Joel’s 1977 album **The Stranger** for the first time in decades, and was struck by the relevance of almost every song to Gene Hunt’s love life. Chapter 1 is a meander through his mind as he listens to the songs, immediately after the end of Ep 6. (NB This is a very different ‘Vienna’ to the Ultravox song which A2A fans will associate with a plate glass window…). Chapter 2 is Alex’s state of mind, listening to Elton John’s classic 1973 album **Goodbye Yellow Brick Road**.

_Slow down, you're doing fine_

_You can't be everything you want to be before your time_

_Although it was so romantic on the borderline tonight_

_Too bad, but it's the life you lead_

_You're so ahead of yourself that you forget what you need_

_Though you can see when you're wrong_

_You know you can't always see when you're right_

_But you know that when the truth is told_

_That you can get what you want or you can just get old_

_You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through_

_When will you realize... Vienna waits for you.._

 

 

Luigi’s was empty, which suited Gene fine. It was only mid-morning, after all, too early for the lunchtime trade. He’d retreated here after sitting in his office staring at the walls; the Chas Cale paperwork was boxed off and handed to the clerical plonks to sort out, and the rest of the scum on his manor were presumably having a lie-in, as all was quiet in CID.

 

 

With nothing new come in, there was nothing to distract him from thinking of Alex. He’d just saved her life, for god’s sake, and he thought it had changed things between them. There was a softness about her this morning, Christ – she’d actually paid him a compliment as they left the office. Yes, OK, she’d then knocked him back again, but it had been crass, even by his standards, to ask her for a shag at that moment – she’d nearly died a couple of hours earlier. _You stupid gobshite, Gene. Trying to make a joke of it – why can’t you wrap it up in the romantic shite that birds like? Then Alex Drake isn’t the sort of bird that I’m used to_. _But she was bloody quick to leave me when Golden Boy slithered in. OK, maybe she was being kind to Donny, poor little sod, he’d had the worst night of his life, and on his birthday_. Gene would have taken Alex and Donny to the hospital if she’d given him a chance to offer, but as soon as he saw the smooth bastard walk round the corner, he knew he was outclassed. When White said he’d take her home after, she’d leapt at it, forgot all about her old buddy the Gene Genie. _So much for all those soft words, soft fingers stroking my face, moments when I felt my whole world was there in my arms…._

 

 

Ray banged on his door and barged in, but before he could speak, Gene pushed himself to his feet, snarling at his sergeant. ‘Don’t care, Ray, whatever it is. Not interested.’ He barged past Ray’s stocky body stood in his path, and stalked out of the office without another word, leaving the office staring at the swinging doors and giving each other meaningful looks.

 

 

Now Gene sat in his usual corner beneath the mural, nursing a large whisky, while Luigi’s wife pottered about cleaning and tidying. She’d put on some irritating bloody tape and was bobbing gently to the rhythm as she wiped down the tables. Billy Joel – Gene remembered he’d bought it for his wife, who loved this sentimental stuff and played it incessantly for a few months.

 

 

_Don't go changing, to try and please me; you never let me down before…. I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble. We never could have come this far. I took the good times, I'll take the bad times – I'll take you just the way you are…_

 

 

She was his missus, always there waiting, even when he came home pissed and reeking of some tart’s scent. She put up with him, was his anchor, loved him. Until she stopped. One too many drinking sessions; one too many knee tremblers; selfish, thoughtless git. No wonder she found someone else and dumped him in the crapper.

 

 

_Once I used to believe I was such a great romancer_

_Then I came home to a woman that I could not recognize_

_When I pressed her for a reason she refused to even answer_

_It was then I felt the stranger kick me right between the eyes…_

 

 

So much had happened since. Divorced; Sam dead, Manchester left behind. And Alex Drake…

 

 

_You may never understand_

_How the stranger is inspired_

_But he isn't always evil_

_And he isn't always wrong_

 

 

Gene wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to convince her that he was a decent human being. Come to that, he couldn’t always convince himself: Sam spent most of his time poking him with a sharp stick, the cheeky bloody sod. Alex was so like Sam in some ways – always fighting, never afraid to stand up to him, fire in her eyes, steel backbone, ballsy, gutsy, infuriating bloody beautiful woman.

 

 

_Oh, she takes care of herself, she can wait if she wants_

_She's ahead of her time…_

_But she'll bring out the best and the worst you can be_

 

 

Memory of her in the tart’s fake fur, hissing at him: _‘Piss off, you lardy fascist…’_ brought a wry smile to his face, and a string of images flicked through his head: DI Drake spitting insubordinate defiance at him, Bolly Kecks dressed up to the nines, dressed down as a slapper, Bolls boozing like a pro, Alex in his arms…

 

 

Gene threw back his whisky and poured himself another from the bottle Luigi had left him. Stupid bloody music – driving him mad. Like Bolls. No point in dreaming. Waste of effort. She wasn’t going to look at him – why would she? Posh bird with her posh Guardian-reading boyfriend and her prozzie girlfriends wasn’t going to give him a second glance. Unless it was one of her killer looks, of course. She could shrivel his scrotum with that look.

 

 

_She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes… She can ask for the truth but she'll never believe you… She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool. But she can't be convicted; she's earned her degree…_

 

 

But she did look at him, sometimes with a look that made him dizzy, left him gasping for breath and sanity. He had a struggle, most days, to keep his tongue from hanging out and drooling.

 

 

_She can lead you to love, she can take you or leave you…_ … _She will promise you more than the Garden of Eden_

 

 

Those few moments – in here one night, in the Edgehampton vault, even on her very first night when he’d dragged her upstairs, both of them rat-arsed – he’d no idea how he’d kept his hands and his mouth off her. And this morning… Gene shook his head to clear the feelings of terror and murderous rage and tenderness that had overwhelmed him as he fought to stop her dying. He dragged his mind back to easier memories – of the pair of them inventing a midnight feast for Donny’s birthday last night, dragging Luigi downstairs, trying to distract the child from deception and murder. _Be a mother, Alex_ … she looked so good with a child. Sometimes she seemed like little more than a girl herself, scared of the dark, tears in her eyes, trembling....

 

 

_She hides like a child, but she's always a woman to me_

 

 

Gene’s fists clenched as he could still feel her clutching on to him for comfort in the face of a slow airless death, her hand on his heart. He felt it beating now, thudding, and he still had the sensation of her body beneath his arm, skin to skin.

 

 

_A bottle of white, a bottle of red (perhaps a bottle of rosé instead)_

_We'll get a table near the street in our old familiar place_

_You and I, face to face…_

_…Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight_

_I'll meet you anytime you want, in our Italian restaurant_

 

 

How many nights had they spent in here? sitting over the best of Luigi’s undrinkable wine, heads propped in hands, elbow to elbow, chewing the fat, arguing about nothing, him trying to make sense of her insane theories, her giving him a mild bollocking for one bloody thing or another.

 

 

_What will it take till you believe in me, the way that I believe in you?_

 

 

And this nutty belief that they were all constructs, unreal, figments of her insane imagination – he’d given up trying to fathom that one. Some trick-cyclist psychobabble, he hoped, not evidence of being a certifiable fruitcake. Mind you, everyone seemed to accept her as a nutter – baffling, but it didn’t seem to get in the way of her job, so he put it down to the public school system. Enough to send anyone round the twist.

 

 

She mithered on about going home, but where was home? Somewhere in Oxfordshire, maybe, somewhere upper crust and expensive, with mummy and daddy in some Christ-almighty manor house with polo ponies in the stables and a Bentley in the drive. Hoorays and City suits queuing up to take her to dinner and feed her on miniscule bits of raw fish and a bit of carrot. How was he supposed to compete with that? She was Benenden and Oxbridge; he was Hulme Grammar and school of hard knocks. Family to him was strife and nightmares; a night out was a keg of beer and a lamb vindaloo.

 

 

For now, she was slumming it upstairs, in Luigi’s little flat where Gene still had a couple of shirts and a spare suit stuffed in the wardrobe from a few months ago, when he was too pissed to get back to his own bed and kept a change of clothes there. It gave him a little shiver of … something… to think of his stuff in with Alex’s

 

clothes. Probably as close as he’d get to sharing her space, he thought.

 

 

_While in these days of quiet desperation I search everywhere for some new inspiration_

_Everybody has a dream – and this is my dream, my own – just to be at home, and to be all alone with you_

 

 

The image popped into his head before he could stop it – coming home to Alex… Her smile to light up his evening, that lithe, soft, generous body to wind around his, that hair to bury his face in, those eyes, that mouth…

 

 

Gene hit his skull with the heel of his band, trying to knock such idiot fantasies of out of his head. It was getting bad – until yesterday he just wanted her: a shag, a series of shags… all right, he admitted to himself, sex with Bollinger Knickers Posh Tart Drake anywhere and any time remotely possible. In the evidence room, in the back of the motor, in some manky dockland warehouse, on that big stripey sofa, up against any convenient wall, and on his desk. God, he thought, dropping his head into his hands, face burning at the memory – that effing doodle. Gene took a swig of his whisky, and choked. He’d crucify whichever arsehole pinned it to the board; thank god Alex didn’t see it. Christ, he prayed she didn’t see it…

 

 

_And all the fantasies that I have been keeping_

_Will make the empty hours easier to stand_

 

 

But this morning, when he saw his DI’s warrant card on the floor of the Cales’ restaurant, her body trussed and dumped like a carcass on the floor, freezing to death, breathless – time iced over. His fantasy of ripping her clothes off were a sick joke that set the rage flaring in him – she’d better not bloody dare to die and leave him, not now. He’d forgotten everything he’d been taught about resuscitation – prayed he was doing something right, prayed she’d live, prayed… Gene hadn’t believed in god since the tooth fairy failed to show any interest in his first milk tooth. But he had prayed to something for Alex’s life this morning. Giving her mouth-to-mouth was a nightmare – he had longed to kiss the life out of her, not to have to breathe the life into her. When her eyes flicked open as his mouth was about to touch hers, he was shocked into silence, overwhelmed by some feeling he didn’t recognise, unable to move. Then her hand reached up, touched his face, stroked his face, and he wouldn’t have moved for the last still of single malt on the planet. The look on her face… the caress of her fingers, her body warming beneath his, her eyes, those great luminous eyes. Then she was babbling some bloody nonsense, his daft DI coming back to loony life, and he could relax. He’d settled on his elbows, one hand cupping her head, the other at her shoulder, about to hug her close, tight to him, and never let her go.

 

 

That scared him almost as much as the threat of losing her, so when three squad cars screeched to a standstill beside the Quattro, spilling Ray, Chris, Shaz and half a dozen plods in through the shattered window, Gene had felt relief more than frustration, grabbing Alex up and carrying her out to the ambulance which was turning into the quay. It had been called to Chas, and Joan Cale was screaming for attention – but Gene had grabbed the ambulance man by the lapels and suggested to him politely that he attend to the nice police officer first if he wanted to keep his job and his balls.

 

 

_I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble_

_We never could have come this far…_

 

 

_I don't want clever conversation; I never want to work that hard_

_I just want someone to talk to_

 

 

Alex Drake was as different to his ex-wife as she could get; she drove him right to the edge, tempted him, hurt him, berated him, belittled him, disobeyed him, unsettled his team, gave him brain-ache, made him doubt every value he held, challenged his politics, poured scorn on his habits, disputed his very existence. She’d brought him to life, rekindled the fire in his belly, found the tender protector beneath the bastard armour.

 

 

_I took the good times, I'll take the bad times_

_I'll take you just the way you are_

 

 

She was like no other woman Gene had known – like no woman he could have imagined knowing. Like no woman he could have imagine loving. As he realised where his thoughts had led him, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He was thinking of a future, dreaming of a life together. Something he’d not let himself think about since he’d left Manchester, since he’d learned to live day by day in the lawless swamp of London’s docklands and the smoky haven of Luigi’s basement.

 

He’d screwed up so often, missed so many chances, said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing, and now he was paying the price.

 

 

_She is frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel_

 

 

Just when he thought he stood the ghost of a chance, walking her back home this morning, felt her warm and relaxed beside him… she leaves him flat, floundering, tongue-tied, lost, watching her disappear in the wake of the smooth bastard, dismissing him until tomorrow morning, a long cold day and a longer night away.

 

 

_Then all I have are these games that I've been playing_

_To keep my hope from crumbling away_

 

 

Gene picked up the whisky bottle but found it empty of anything but fumes. He stood up and headed for the bar, tripping over a chair and cursing, just as Luigi came back from the cash and carry. ‘Signor Hunt! Why are you here again by your own? Is not good to drink so early. Is everyone OK? The signora is OK?

 

 

‘Detective Signora Bollinger Drake is off duty, off with her bastard boyfriend, and off my hands. Scotch, Luigi, come on,’ he thumped the bar. Luigi didn’t move a muscle, just looked at him in that disapproving continental bloody smart-arse way he’d got down pat. ‘I don’t want another lecture, Luigi,’ he muttered, as Luigi opened his mouth to start one. ‘You may be Professor of Romantic Bollocks at the Latin University of Life, but I don’t need any lessons, thanks.’ He leant over the bar, grabbed a fresh bottle from the shelf and headed back to his table, tripping over the same chair en route. Billy Joel was still warbling away, driving him nuts.

 

 

_I've gotta get it right the first time_

_You get it right the next time, that's not the same thing…_

_So I suppose it's now or never_

_Before that woman walks right out of my life_

 

 

‘Signor Hunt, you are stubborn like an ass from Puglia, and stupid as a Sardinian pigherder.’

 

 

About to bite the Italian’s head off, Gene’s eyes narrowed – he’d never heard Luigi use that tone of voice or, for that matter, use what he guessed were gross insults to his best customer. He closed his mouth, and let the tirade continue to break over his head.

 

 

‘I warn you yesterday about this young man, and you take my advice and fetch the signora down. But now, what did you do? You give her away to this man when she doesn’t want him. You don’t see what is before your face, you don’t use your clever head.

 

 

‘I watch her, I watch you. You love her,’ he put up a hand to silence Gene as he opened his mouth to protest, before continuing: ‘You love her, and she is yours if you ask her, but you say nothing, you push her away from you, and this young man is there waiting to take her. He is not good for her – he cannot give her the fire she needs, and she will die inside. With you she is alive, you are alive. You have been like Dracula since you come here, not dead, not alive. Now with this beautiful woman there is fire in you, but you are too afraid to let it warm your heart.’

 

 

Gene didn’t move, couldn’t speak.

 

 

Luigi took a deep breath, and sighed heavily. He came over to Gene’s table and sat down, leaning across the table confidentially. ‘You are a man full of courage to catch the _mafiosi_ who can shoot you dead, so why are you scared of taking the signorina in your arms? Hmm?’

 

 

There was a silence – Billy Joel had finally clicked himself off – and the tough copper finally looked up at Luigi with an expression that brought a smile to Luigi’s moustache, and he patted Gene’s arm in a paternal fashion.

 

 

Gene found his voice. ‘I have tried, Luigi – I keep asking her, but every time she shouts at me, or laughs at me. She’s not interested.’

 

 

‘You offer her sex. She can get sex from anyone she wants. From you, she wants more. She longs for your heart, not your… _cazzone_.’

 

 

The Manc Lion rallied for a moment. ‘Even though it’s of unusual size?’

 

 

Luigi grunted in disgust and stood up, scorn in his eyes for this foolish English man. ‘ _Cacasenno_. This is why you are alone. It is time you grow up, _signor_ , or you will have only your _cazzone_ for company. _Scuzi_ – I have things to do.’ He bowed with exaggerated civility and stalked off.

 

 

Realising, even through the whisky haze, that he was losing the best help he was going to get, Gene shot after him and grabbed his shoulder. ‘Look. Luigi...’

 

 

The Italian turned and looked up at the unsmiling face. Whatever he saw there thawed him enough to gesture Gene to a bar stool. Now eye to eye, Luigi looked intently at his best customer for a moment. ‘So… what?’ asked Gene. ‘Ask her to dinner or something?’

 

 

Luigi shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But something sophisticated. Silver service, white linen. Fresh blossoms. Beautiful… expensive,’ he said with meaning.

 

 

Gene nodded hesitantly. Restaurants that Alex would think smart were not in his little black book. ‘Such as…?’

 

 

‘The signorina likes fish. She has excellent taste. My cousin Enzo has a beautiful _ristorante_ in Drury Lane. His _trota con mandorle_ is…’ he kissed his fingers in the classic gesture of approval. He noticed Gene’s frown. ‘Trout with almonds,’ he explained. ‘ _Delicata, squisita_.’

 

 

‘Right, then,’ said Gene. ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll ask her. Give me the name of this place then, and I’ll boost your cousin Enzo’s profits for the week.’

 

 

As Luigi scribbled the name and number down, Gene looked a bit shifty. ‘Luigi, you say nothing…’ he tailed off. Luigi looked indignant. ‘ _Io non so niente_. But don’t wait, signor. Be a gentleman. Charming.’ Gene looked twitchy at this injunction, but didn’t argue. ‘Charming. Right. Er, thanks, Luigi. Thanks. Trout and almonds. Right. Better get back to the office.’

 

 

As Gene stalked out of the bar, Luigi looked over to his wife, who was standing in the kitchen door. They beamed at each other, nodding. Mrs Luigi held up both hands, her fingers crossed.

 

 

At the Homerton Hospital, Donny was introducing Alex and Evan to his punch-drunk mum, and his new baby brother. Closer to the bar, a group of teenagers were setting up their boom box, ready to blast the empty street with the distinctive sounds of ska, and a white van with a bath strapped to the roof was trundling east from the City.

 

 

_So I suppose it's now or never_

_Before that woman walks right out of my life_

_Just let me pull myself together_

_I've got to give it one good try_

_Got to take my chance tonight…_


	2. Alex

_Tune me in to the wild side of life_

_I'm an innocent young child sharp as a knife_

_Take me to the garretts where the artists have died_

_Show me the courtrooms where the judges have lied_

_Let me drink deeply from the water and the wine_

_Light coloured candles in dark dreary minds_

_Look in the mirror and stare at myself_

_And wonder if that's really me on the shelf_

_And each day I learn just a little bit more_

_I don't know why but I do know what for_

_If we're all going somewhere let's get there soon_

_Oh, this song's got no title – just words and a tune_

 

 

‘You’re sure you’ll be OK – don’t need company?’ Evan had brought her back to the flat, as promised, and had obviously assumed that he was going to come up with her – but she could no longer deal with the fact that he fancied her. It did her head in, trying to separate the love she had for the godfather who brought her up, from the sexual interest Evan was showing in what he thought was an attractive newcomer.

 

 

‘Honestly, Evan, I’ll be fine. My head’s killing me, and all I want is paracetamol and sleep,’ said Alex, giving her godfather a quick hug, pulling away when Evan put his arms around her. She trudged up the two flights of stairs, let herself into the flat and pulled off her boots before hunting down a bottle of headache pills and swallowing three.

 

 

They’d taken Donny to Homerton Hospital, where his mum was a bit punch-drunk from the birth of her baby and news that her brother had been murdered. Unsurprisingly weepy, she just wanted to cling to her 8-year-old boy. Alex felt for her, had to blink away tears. Donny’s baby brother had been adorable, as newborns always are, untouched by the world, blind to the future, wanting nothing but the touch of warm skin and an engorged breast. Watching him feed, Alex’s nipples contracted in automatic response as she relived the moment her newborn daughter’s mouth first touched her – god, how she longed for Molly.

 

 

But as swiftly as Molly’s face had come, another face took its place. He was in her head again, and Alex flushed at the memory of the hurt and need on his face when she left with Evan. Gene Hunt, needing anything, needing her? Alex shook her head to rid herself of the uncomfortable image. Can’t go there, she thought. Let alone think about the dream, and who turned out to be in her bed. Nope, not going there, either. She grabbed Evan’s arm, said goodbye to Donny’s little family, and they left the ward. Alex chattered all the way back to the car, distracting herself from thinking about the last couple of days; once in Evan’s car she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Easier all round, she decided.

 

 

After an hour in bed her headache had subsided, but she was still wide awake, mind racing. Why couldn’t she sleep? After the last 24 hours she was shattered, thought she’d sleep as soon as she hit the mattress. She dragged herself off the bed and went over to the hi-fi, sifting through the small collection of vinyl to find music she could fall asleep to. Bowie, some gruesome country & western rubbish, Stones, _Derek & Clive Live_, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath. Very soporific, I don’t think. Aha – Elton John – _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_ – good god, what a blast from the past. It came out the year she was born; Uncle Angus loved it, played it every time her mother took her over to his flat – Alex and her outrageous uncle would dance like lunatics to the up tempo tracks. Good god, the last time must have been about now, she thought. Uncle Angus’s birthday was early October, she remembered, because every year he made some black shock frock for his Hallowe’en party, and his flat would be littered with feathers and sequins and chains and little skeletons, and Angus would wrap Alex and her mother in bits of glittery lurex and feather boas, make them look like something out of the Addams Family. Alex smiled at the memory – he’d insist on them being Morticia and Wednesday for his birthday tea. What a nutcase. She wondered if she’d bump into him while she was in 1981, but no such luck, and now it was only a few days before the crucial events on the 10th, and her departure. Would Gene get another woman DI? she wondered. Doubtful – he’d probably insist on a man. Funny, big blokey bloke like him so terrified of women. But then he was a softie under the hard man image. She’d seen that a few hours ago. A whole new side to Gene Hunt… No. Don’t want to think about that.

 

 

Alex pulled the first record from its sleeve and stuck it on the turntable. It looked pristine – not one of the boys’ favourites, then. She went back to bed and lay flat, as the needle hit the first track. _Funeral for a Friend_. Oh, lovely, she thought. Who’d come to my funeral? Might be next week if she couldn’t keep control of things here. The wind machine and the wheezy synthesiser made her think of graveyards in cowboy films, always on the top of a hill, with a man in stetson silhouetted against the sky. Gene in his Clint Eastwood outfit: the sheriff with his posse, bit of a maverick, if not exactly a high plains drifter…

 

 

She tried a couple of meditation techniques but got so twitchy she thrashed her way out of bed and went to the sofa instead, grabbing a blanket on the way. _Love Lies Bleeding_ … Am I bleeding to death on that leaking rubbish barge? Who loves me, apart from Molly and Evan? My darling husband wouldn’t give a damn – well, maybe a tuppenny damn. And he’d borrow the tuppence off his idiot girlfriend. Tosser.

 

 

_I wonder if those changes have left a scar on you_

_Like all the burning hoops of fire that you and I passed through_

 

 

The explosion erupted in Alex’s head. The familiar image, black smoke, red flame, white light. Red balloon. Flash of heat. A hand grabbing hers… She got scarred all the same, though. It just didn’t show. How did Gene get that scar beside his mouth? She’d always wanted to touch it, see how it felt, see if he reacted. A Manchester villain, she guessed – according to Sam’s notes the DCI loved a fight, and if there wasn’t a villain to be thrashed, he’d take a swipe at one of his own team, given half an excuse. What a child. The man’s in his 40s, for god’s sake. Quite fit for his age, though, if you don’t count the beer gut. Stop thinking about Hunt. Sleep.

 

 

_You know you can't hold me forever – I didn't sign up with you_

 

 

I’m going home. It’s hell here, there’s nothing to keep me here. A few days more and I’m gone. I won’t get sucked into your life. Any of your lives. No attachments. Keep cool, keep your distance. Don’t let him get to you, Alex. He’s not real. None of them are real, however warm and solid he feels. However the colour shifts in his eyes. However much I long to be held, feel safe...

 

 

_And it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind_

_Never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in_

 

 

Poor old Diana, she thought. Just married, all that ivory silk and lace, all that brouhaha, and she’s got no idea what’s ahead of her. Poor cow. Sad, lonely child. Him too, really, but at least he survives and gets his true love. A bit late, but he’s happy now. Well, in 2008. Mind you, she’s almost canonised now, and will be beautiful for ever. High price, though, being squished in a tunnel. Like being shot. What do I get? Eugene T. Rex Hunt and a bad perm. Is that me? A candle in the wind? I’ve always clung to the wrong people. Well, not Evan. From the moment he took my hand he looked after me, bless him. Alex smiled, thinking of Evan’s confusion here in 1981 – poor sod, he’s got this clingy nutcase he fancies but he thinks is probably certifiable. But if I told him the truth, he’d have me whipped into the loony bin and dosed up on lithium. Was lithium used in 1981? Can’t remember. Don’t want to find out, either.

 

 

She couldn’t stand this. Throwing off the blanket she got up and sat on the floor by the hi-fi. She picked up the stylus and dropped it on to the next track. When was the remote control invented?

 

 

_We shall survive, let us take ourselves along where we fight our parents out in the streets, to find who's right and who's wrong_

 

 

Alex smiled as she remembered dancing with Angus to this. Bennie and the Jets, naughty noisy boys. But here she was, a mother herself, still fighting. Yelling at her own mother, suspecting her, accusing her, trying to save her life. And her mother, not knowing who she was sitting with, telling her she’d be ashamed to see her daughter grow up like DI Drake. God, that hurt. That hurt like burning bloody hell.

 

 

The tears came then, scalding her. But under the noise of Bennie and the Jets, she screamed her frustration at the walls and pushed the tears back down inside her. She wasn’t going to fall to pieces now. She’d survived today, she’d survive the bullet. But I wouldn’t have survived today, she thought. Not without Gene Hunt. Would she have died? Same question she asked him before. I can’t die, can I? But I can die. And if I die here, I’ll be dead there, too. Or will I? Maybe I’m just nuts, trussed in a straitjacket and whimpering in a padded cell, dreaming crazy dreams.

 

 

_Sometimes you dream, sometimes it seems there's nothing there at all_

_You just seem older than yesterday, and you're waiting for tomorrow to call_

 

 

Reports of near death experience vary so much there’s no viable theory behind it – god knows I tried to come up with something for Sam’s book. Wish I’d had more time. Could have made more sense of all this. Alex racked her brain for facts. Make connections. Entheogenics, DMT.. what was DMT? Dimethyltriptase… no, -triptamine. Brain chemistry wasn’t a psychologist’s remit. No psychopharmacology on my degree course. Bit of biology, physiology, sure. But it’s not helping me now. For one thing, no books. And they’d be 25 years out of date. One woman – name….? Eadie – said NDE was her best conception of hell, living the consequences of her actions on all those around her. Well, mused Alex, she’s not wrong there.

 

 

_Want to read books in the studies of men, born on the breeze and die on the wind… I'd study my subject and silently cry, cry for the darkness to come down on me, for confusion to carry on turning the wheel_

 

 

Alex slumped on the carpet, long legs sprawled. Where the hell was she? Didn’t know if she was still in the Thames barge, or was on an ED table, wired up and intubated. Or on a stainless steel slab, breathless, still, waiting for the knives and the probes and the pathologist’s dictated notes.

 

 

Or just here, locked in the past, her future dependent on a man she’d despised by default, a man who’d defied her imagination, who was turning into a solid human being, complex, confusing, not to be ignored. And, boy, had she tried.

 

 

_I'm looking for a dolly who'll see me right_

_I may use a little muscle to get what I need_

_I may sink a little drink and shout out "She's with me!"_

 

 

That was Sam’s version of Gene Hunt – Pig, Filth – an officer of the law, god help the British population. An armed bastard. Lardy fascist. Neanderthal, chauvinist, sexist, puerile, arrogant prick. Alex replayed all the insults she’d hurled at Hunt, to his face and behind his back. That’s what she was expecting, and that’s what she got. So what kind of psychologist did that make her? Preconceptions, projection – she hadn’t exactly been fair or detached in her dealings with Sam’s old team. Memories of dismissing them as constructs, patronizing them for being of their time, sneering at their technology, belittling their values, laughing in their faces. Nice.

 

 

_Get about as oiled as a diesel train – gonna set this dance alight_

 

 

So who was so civilised and decorous that night, when Gene turned her down and the the Thatcherite tosser had rocked up? Mrs 21stCentury Marvel, that’s who. She shuddered at the memory – that she’d tried, and failed, to seduce her boss, that she had to face his scorn the next day, and that she deserved it. Hard drinking, hard talking, hard hitting tough old bird, Mrs Drake. Had to be as hard as the hardest man, show ‘em who’s boss, refuse to be cowed, take no shit from Sherlock. No wonder Gene gave her hell – she had been trying to wrench his balls off him and show him they suited her better.

 

 

_Raised to be a lady by the golden rule, Alice was the spawn of a public school; with a double-barrelled name in the back of her brain, and a simple case of Mummy-doesn't-love-me blues_

 

 

Yes, well, cheers, Bernie. Those lyrics just about sum it up. Funny, thought Alex. Uncle Angus used to laugh when she demanded this song and hopped around singing along. She loved it because it sounded like ‘all the girls love Alex’. She knew every word of the song but hadn’t understood it. Now, listening with adult ears, she realised why Uncle Angus was so amused. What would an eight year old know about homosexuality? She learned, mind you. Her parents were active supporters of the Gay Rights movement and the house was often full of queens, clones, bears, and nice young men in very sharp suits. Alex ate sexual politics with her cornflakes, especially if Peter Tatchell was over for breakfast; Bruce Kent and Oliver Tambo were there often enough to acquire quasi-uncle status. Alexandra Emmeline Lloyd-Price also learned early on that radical politics was too absorbing to bother about her supper some nights, but the biscuit tin, at least, was never empty.

 

 

_Poor little darling with a chip out of her heart_

_It's like acting in a movie when you got the wrong part_

 

 

Families. What goes on behind closed doors… Nice middle class families might be more subtle about it than the Mancunian proletariat, but sometimes fists could do less lasting damage than words. Alex remembered reading Sam’s notes about Gene Hunt’s background. Violence and alcohol didn’t produce great role models for a boy. No wonder, then, that booze and clenched fists were how Hunt took on the world. No wonder, either, that he loved the cowboy legend.

 

 

_Roy Rogers is riding tonight, returning to our silver screens_

_Comic book characters never grow old, evergreen heroes whose stories were told. Oh, the great sequinned cowboy who sings of the plains, of roundups and rustlers and home on the range_

 

 

Strong silent heroes, righting wrongs and riding off into the sunset. If that bloody Quattro isn’t an Appaloosa stallion substitute, I don’t know what is. She smiled, a rush of affection for the old romantic softie that she had just realised hid beneath the armour. A long way beneath, mind. God – I’m starting to pick up Northern speech patterns.

 

 

_Show me the courtrooms where the judges have lied… Take me down alleys where the murders are done_

 

 

A keen sense of social justice, abhorrence of lies and hypocrisy, a need to make a difference. Her drive to join the Police? Sure. But Gene’s, too. Alex gave up trying not to think about DCI Hunt, put the second record on the turntable and shifted herself back till she could lean against the sofa. She pulled the blanket round her legs, and hugged herself. No-one else to hug me, she thought bleakly. Could have had Evan here. Didn’t want Evan here. Wanted someone solid, real, true. Wanted Gene.

 

 

_Hello, baby hello – haven't seen your face for a while_

_Have you quit doing time for me, or are you still the same spoiled child?_

 

 

More tears. Slow tears, welling up and spilling down her face. Let herself think about this morning…

 

 

_Hello, baby hello – open up your heart and let your feelings flow_

_You're not unlucky knowing me, keeping the speed real slow_

_In any case I set my own pace by stealing the show._

 

 

She’d known it was coming. The clown was pulling her in, taking her body temperature down, drawing closer. Gene had fished her out of the freezing flat, dragged her downstairs, slung his coat round her shoulders even while he was calling her a bossy cow. She’d called him a Bonapartist. His riposte was pretty damned swift, she remembered. ‘What’s that then – double jointed?’ He was a lot brighter than he liked to let on, most of the time. And his instincts were spot on. He was good at people. Didn’t like many of them, but he could spot a phony and he was loyal to a fault. And, Alex realised, he was straight as the proverbial dye. WYSIWYG Hunt. No cant, no side. If he couldn’t answer truthfully, he’d say nothing. Or come out with some sharp sarky line to deflect it. He might bend the rules, but he had values. And he was ultra fair, in his way. He might find gays and prostitutes an affront to his principles, but once under his protection, he treated them with respect and, amazingly, kindness. He couldn’t resist a lame duck, her guv.

 

 

Alex drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head, appalled at her failure. Some psychologist. Judgemental, blinkered, bigoted, mulish. Her, not him. Well, him too, she granted herself. But he didn’t have a postgrad degree in criminal psychology and behavioural science.

 

 

She thought she was so much cleverer than him she would prove it by catching Chas Cale. So instead of sticking with Gene, she’d shut him out, gone off on her own. Like Sam. And he died. Ray had warned her, the day she arrived, to stick with the guv. But clever Mrs Smartypants Drake knew better. She didn’t need any man, let alone this man. And she nearly died. Froze to death, iced over, absolute zero. Nothing, without him.

 

 

Alex put her head back, took a deep breath. That was a bad turn of phrase. Couldn’t cope with that. Dead without him, granted. Not nothing. Anyway, no point in thinking like that. She was going home soon. In a few days she’d save her parents, stop the bastards who planted the bomb, and go home to her daughter. She’d leave all this behind. Shaz, and Viv, and Chris – even hairy old bear Ray. Luigi – no more Latin charm. No more atrocious wine and soggy antipasti, either. Not all bad, then. She chuckled softly.

 

 

Saying goodbye to Gene. She was ambushed by the stabbing pain of that thought. Couldn’t deny it. The Gene Genie was out of the bottle and she knew she couldn’t stuff him away again, out of sight.

 

 

_Hello, baby hello – open up your heart and let your feelings flow_

_You're not unlucky knowing me_

 

 

She couldn’t deal with this. Alex got to her feet, went into the kitchen in search of alcohol. Something to take the edge off. Unearthed a bottle of Scotch with a couple of fingers left. Laphroaig. Gene’s, then. He was everywhere. No escaping it. She took the bottle back into the sitting room and dumped herself on the sofa, tipping the bottle up, like a wino after scarfing a packet of peanuts.

 

 

His face, scaring off the clown. Warmth enveloping her against the cold. His face, inches from hers, his hand under her jaw. Waking at the butterfly touch of his mouth on hers, bittersweet breath of tobacco and whisky. The jolt of shock at waking to seeing Gene close as a lover.

 

 

She took another swig from the bottle – this was hard. She was trembling.

 

 

His face inches away, silent, eyes blazing. Was she touching his face? Memory of warm skin beneath her fingers, and his hand on her hair. Weight of his body on hers, warm, heavy, alive. She felt so safe for the first time since she’d arrived. No – longer than that. Since Molly was born. That utter certainty of being cared for, protected. Loved.

 

 

The truth of it hit her like a sand-filled sock and she could hardly breathe with the weight of it. The empty bottle dropped from her nerveless fingers. What had she done to him? Saw his face in the corridor as she left with Donny. With Evan. Oh, god. Gene. I’m so sorry, so sorry. I’ve got to go home. Got to leave you.

 

 

The bitterness of it pushed her to her feet, and she dragged on clothes, shoes, grabbed keys and slammed the door behind her. Couldn’t sit there thinking – driving herself mad.

 

 

She walked for hours, wandering through Whitechapel, among the ghosts of prostitutes and drunken sailors, shadows of Jack on grimy brick walls, before crossing Cable Street and heading to Wapping Stairs and the river. Judge Jeffreys tried to escape from here, she thought. He was Gene’s age. Beautiful looking man, brilliant. Heartless. Gene must think that of me – pretty face, cold heart.

 

 

_Have you quit doing time for me, or are you still the same spoiled child?_

 

 

She drifted up Wapping High Street, the 1981 landscape derelict, waiting for the developers to reach out from the Square Mile. The Prospect of Whitby pub stood defiant against a decade of recession. Whitby, thought Alex. _Heartbeat_ country. Country coppers all gruff and Northern, buttons shiny and not an ethic out of place. Well, bully for the 1960s. In 1981 London’s docklands were bandit country, a scummy swamp full of nasty little sewer rats biting into anything soft. She got it, at long last, understood Gene’s kind of policing. A time and a place.

 

 

Tomorrow, in the office. Then what? She do as Gene had always told her to do. She’d follow his lead and trust him to take care of her – until it was time to go.

 

 

It was getting dark. She turned on her heel and headed for home. For the flat. For home, for as long as she was here.

 

 

_If I was an artist who paints with his eyes_

_I'd study my subject and silently cry_

_Cry for the darkness to come down on me_

_For confusion to carry on turning the wheel._


End file.
